


Henry Lancaster’s List of Regrets

by heartofstanding



Series: Modern Plantagenets [2]
Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Issues, F/M, Hangover, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Henry has a list of regrets. Numerated, of course. But this morning brings developments that might make him reconsider his top three regrets.
Relationships: Mary de Bohun (d. 1394)/Henry IV of England
Series: Modern Plantagenets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599763
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Henry Lancaster’s List of Regrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleLantern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleLantern/gifts).



> This exists in the same universe as [The Proposal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412127), though they work well enough as standalone fics. 
> 
> Written for a prompt from MapleLantern.

Henry peeled open an eye to glower at the alarm clock and groaned. 8am. Shit. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow but the alarm kept yelling at him and Mary was already up. He flung out an arm and managed to knock the still-screaming clock to the ground. It didn’t help. His next move was to roll out of bed and onto the ground, which was a mistake because landing made his head hurt all the more and his ear ended up right next to the alarm. At least he managed to turn it off this time. He laid on the carpet and wondered if Mary would phone his father and tell him Henry had caught a stomach bug and they couldn’t possibly drive down to see him today.

The problem with that was Thomas Swynford would sell him out and then he’d get his father on the phone, talking about his _future_ and _respectability_ and _owning up to your mistakes._ And then the kicker, _does the anniversary of your mother’s death mean nothing to you?_ Henry rolled over and blinked, staring at the fine cracks in the ceiling. He prayed, briefly, that it’d collapse and give him the perfect excuse for not moving for at least a day. But it resolutely stayed intact and in place – obviously just to spite him.

He considered the list of things he regretted (yes, he had a list – in his head at least – and it was numerated) and wondered if he should move number three – going drinking with Swynford – up a spot or two. The problem was that number two was talking to his cousin Richard about anything and number one was having a perpetually disappointed, emotionally distant father and a dead saint as his parents.

And it didn’t help him get up off the floor or make his head feel any better.

But going drinking with Swynford at any time was a mistake. Going drinking with Swynford on the night before he had to get up early to go home and see his father for the anniversary of his mother’s death was a bigger mistake, however much the beer and vodka had made it seem bearable at the time. By the far the most colossal mistake though was going drinking with Swynford on the night before he went home for his mother’s anniversary, bumping into Robert _fucking_ de Vere and trying to outdrink him.

It was everything regrets thrived on and Henry had so many already.

*

Henry managed to lever himself off the floor and went to the toilet and pissed for a long time. While he washed his hands, he examined at his reflection in the mirror. He looked half-dead, face too pale and eyes red, and his father would _know,_ just by looking at him, that he’d gone out and gotten stupidly drunk. Fuck. Splashing water in his face didn’t help, it didn’t even help the pain in his head. He fumbled in the medicine cabinet and found the ibuprofen, swallowed two dry.

He shuffled out to the kitchen and stared blearily at the kettle, willing it to life. It sat there quietly. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted the curative powers of tea or the waking-up powers of coffee and wondered if he could make some Frankenstein-like brew of both that would probably see him stripped of his citizenship and sent to live on some deserted island until he properly appreciated tea.

Tea it was, then.

It took awhile to remember how the kettle worked and where the tea bags were kept – he swore Mary had moved them since yesterday afternoon. Maybe that was her revenge for him going out drinking and leaving her on her own? But no, Mary wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t be petty but sweet and understanding. If she was in the kitchen, she’d probably tell him to go sit down while she made the tea and got him breakfast. Nice eggs and bacon, roasted tomato and fried mushrooms. Maybe she’d even dart out to get the fancy sourdough bread they liked.

But she wasn’t there and he had to get his own tea and wonder whether he should have Weetabix or cornflakes for breakfast and if the bread had gone mouldy and whether they still had any of the good jam Mary’s mother had sent them.

He needed something to stir the tea. There weren’t any spoons in the sink and the cutlery drawer would make noise that hurt his head but he needed a spoon—

‘Henry,’ Mary said.

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking a little pale, and she was holding out a stick. Perfect. She always knew just what he needed. Henry walked over, took it and stirred his tea.

‘I love you.’

‘Oh God,’ she said, pressing a hand to her mouth as if she was going to laugh or be sick.

He went to take a sip from his mug but she grabbed it. Before his mind could comprehend the sudden loss of his tea – it was a bit embarrassing, trying to take a sip from something that wasn’t there anymore – Mary had emptied his mug out into the sink and she was squirting detergent into it ferociously, running the hot water until steam wafted up. The white, plastic stirrer was set gingerly to one side.

‘I was going to drink that.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Make another.’

He went to pick up the stirrer.

‘Don’t use that,’ she said. ‘It’s not a – use a teaspoon.’

‘The cutlery drawer’s noisy.’

Mary pulled open the drawer, ignored Henry’s wince, and shoved a teaspoon into his hand. She flicked the kettle on at the same time and Henry scrambled to get a fresh mug and teabag. Mary seemed annoyed, maybe even a little angry.

‘Did I…?’

‘What?’ she said.

‘Dunno.’

He felt like he was in trouble but didn’t know how to say so without sounding like an idiot.

‘That’s not a stirrer,’ Mary said as she scrubbed his favourite mug out.

Henry squinted at it. Now that he thought about it, he thought it weird that they had those plastic stirrer things. And it’d been too sturdy and just the right length. Half the time he burnt his fingers on those stupidly flimsy things.

‘What is it, then?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

He sighed and took a sip of his tea. It burnt his tongue and needed sugar but at least it was a different pain from his headache. He didn’t want to play a guessing game when his head was barely working. He took another sip and prayed for the ibuprofen to kick in.

‘Mary,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It’s eight-thirty, I have a hangover and you’re annoying me.’

‘It’s ten to nine, actually.’

Shit. Henry slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs and held his head in hands. Where had the time gone? If he didn’t get a move on, his father would be ringing to know where he was and they were going to the cemetery at two so Henry best get a move on – what do you mean, you haven’t had breakfast? _The day’s half-gone._

Mary rinsed his mug out one last time and set it on the drying rack. She sat down opposite him and Henry raised his head to smile at her. She really was so pretty and lovely, despite the fact she looked unusually serious. Her engagement ring was winking at him in the sunlight and it didn’t even hurt his head to look at it.

‘I love you,’ he said.

She cracked a small smile. ‘Even though I’m “annoying” you?’

He nodded and regretted it as the pain rolled around his skull. She sighed and scrubbed her fingers over her face.

‘It’s a pregnancy test,’ she said. ‘And it’s positive.’

He stared at her, sure he had heard wrong. It wasn’t possible – they always used protection. In the back of his head, he heard the supercilious, pious tones of the teacher that informed Henry’s class that condoms failed and the only reliable form of contraception was abstinence. And then he remembered the really great sex they had after handing in their final essays, how they’d been so eager and, well, _drunk_ that the condom had torn and they hadn’t worried about it. It was just the once, too – Mary couldn’t possibly get pregnant if they’d only been careless the once.

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded. ‘I did two tests. Both positive. And it explains – a lot of things that have been going on… with me.’

Henry groaned and laid his head down on the table. He had to revise his list of regrets because sex with a broken condom had just shot to the top.


End file.
